


Smile

by mysticanni



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Awkwardness, Gender Identity, Minor Violence, Period Typical Attitudes, Smile (Band) Era, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 11:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22849369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticanni/pseuds/mysticanni
Summary: Brian feels socially awkward.Roger is tired of being mistaken for a woman.Tim is pining.
Relationships: Brian May & Tim Staffell & Roger Taylor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23
Collections: Smile Weekend





	Smile

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Smile Weekend. 
> 
> This wasn't written with a particular prompt in mind. 
> 
> I just wanted to write about Brian's shoe melting. I didn't expect it to be quite so sad. Sorry.

Brian felt like an idiot as he explained, for what felt like the thousandth time that day, what had happened to his boot. Then he forced his face into a polite smile as everyone laughed, including those who had heard the story before, some of them several times, still finding his misfortune amusing.

Roger did not laugh and Brian was grateful for that. Roger had asked around that morning to see if anyone had boots or shoes that Brian could borrow. But of course no one had been the same shoe size as Brian, condemning him to lurching with an awkward lop-sided gait all day.

He had fallen asleep in an armchair in the cosy front room of the terraced house they had been staying in only to be rudely awakened by the stench of burnt rubber and the shock of a bucket of cold water being thrown over his smouldering platform boot. A large chunk of the sole of his left boot had thudded to the carpet and Brian had fancied that he felt part of his soul also dropping onto the carpet, dying of embarrassment. 

He relived the mortification now as everyone laughed and water seeped into his sock from the hole in his sole. 

They were standing in heavy drizzle in a muddy park in Bolton on a Sunday afternoon, watching Tim and Roger’s friend Freddie and his band Ibex perform. Freddie was currently flinging himself into dramatic poses on stage.

The group of people Brian and Roger were standing watching with were all friends of the other members of Ibex. Ibex had played at a theatre in Bolton the previous afternoon and some of the people present had witnessed that performance too. ‘He barely moved yesterday,’ one girl remarked, ‘he was standing with his back to the audience for most of the time. You’d hardly believe it was the same bloke.’

‘Showing off his pert little arse,’ Roger suggested softly to Brian, as he reached his side, thrusting a pint towards him.

‘Thanks,’ Brian found himself clutching two pint glasses while Roger lit a cigarette.

‘Ta, mate,’ Roger retrieved his pint, ‘or maybe he’s just trying out a new persona,’ he mused, looking at Freddie, ‘I think his singing is improving though.’ 

‘Maybe,’ Brian shrugged. Why did they do it he wondered? Why did they play to pissed crowds in dingy pubs and muddy fields for sums of money that barely covered the cost of petrol to get their decrepit vans to the venue? 

He knew what Roger would say, with his blue eyes shining: ‘We may be playing this shitty pub now but tomorrow it’ll be the Rainbow, Brimi! We’re gonna be stars!’

He knew what his father would say: ‘Music is a hobby, Brian. You mustn’t get carried away; mustn’t get distracted from your studies. You could make a real difference to the world as a scientist, son.’ 

It was a dream, of course, being a rock star. Yet Roger sometimes made Brian think they could actually do it. They’d recorded some tracks of course, which had been undeniably exciting, but nothing had happened since and Brian knew it wasn’t likely to, no matter how much Roger wanted it to. Brian thought that out of the three of them Roger was hungrier for being a star than either Brian or Tim. 

Brian felt torn, if he was being honest with himself, between astrophysics and music. He thought Tim would be happy with a career in either music or art. He worried a little about Roger who seemed so fixated on an almost impossible dream. Perhaps it would have been better if they hadn’t got the studio time: that had made Roger think they had made it and Brian thought he would take it very hard if he had to revert to studying to become a dentist.

On the drive back to London, Brian was jammed uncomfortably into the back seat of a mini with Roger practically on his lap due to lack of space. Everyone was tired and there wasn’t much conversation, which Brian was grateful for: he’d had enough human interaction to last him for several weeks. 

He watched as fields gave way to suburbia and then the built-up bustle of London surrounded them and he felt more at home. He gently shook Roger awake, ‘Almost home,’ he explained, with a small smile. 

*

‘Are you okay?’ Brian asked, flinging his arm around Roger’s shoulders and pulling him against his side briefly, before releasing him. 

‘Do you think I should grow a moustache?’ Roger queried, ‘Or a beard?’ He wished Brian had left his arm around him but since they were in the middle of a crowded pub he knew Brian wouldn’t have been able to even if he had wanted to. Roger wondered if he had prompted Brian to show more affection. He was fairly sure the Brian he had first encountered would not have dreamed of any physical contact beyond a brief handshake.

Brian took a sip of his pint and surveyed Roger as well as he could as they were sitting side by side. ‘I can’t imagine you with facial hair,’ he concluded.

Roger sighed and gulped some of his own pint. ‘It takes ages for me to grow any,’ he muttered. He sighed again and sucked on his cigarette. 

‘I think most women prefer clean-shaven men, anyway, Roger,’ Tim offered. ‘I’m sure I read that somewhere.’ 

It had less to do with women’s facial hair preferences, Roger reflected gloomily, and everything to do with men preferring women without facial hair. At the bar earlier a man had pinched Roger’s bottom and had continued to leer at him once Roger had turned around: even face to face he had still been under the misapprehension that Roger was female. Roger thought that some facial hair would at least remove the humiliating need to murmur that a mistake had been made, that Roger was a bloke.

He always kept his voice low, always gave them the chance to simply blush and move away. He never wanted to embarrass them in front of their mates. He’d made that error before: a flash of anger on his part alerting the other man’s companions; rage and humiliation surging in the other man; ridicule of their friend giving way to outraged solidarity from the companions. Then fists would fly. Roger would invariably be outnumbered. He’d covered the subsequent bruises too many times before hoping no one would notice them and ask how he had got them, too ashamed to explain what had happened and see the pity in their eyes. 

The problem was always Roger. The problem was how he looked. If he grew a moustache or a beard then he would have taken an active step to solve the problem. He might still have unwanted hands on his arse but when he turned around perhaps he could simply offer an apologetic (happens all the time mate, don’t worry about it) smile. 

*

Tim thought of Roger every time he had a dental appointment. (Tim thought of Roger most of the time, in fact, but particularly when he had a dental appointment.) 

He could not imagine Roger’s (beautiful) hands encased in gloves holding a little mirror on a stick peering into someone’s mouth. Roger’s hands should be free and twirling drumsticks. 

Brian (with his glorious curls and kind smile) had been quiet since they had returned from Bolton. Tim was sorry to have missed that trip: a family wedding that weekend had prevented him from spending time away with his (gorgeous) band-mates. 

He had been slightly surprised that Brian wanted to go to Bolton so much. He had never seemed particularly keen on Freddie. Tim supposed that was to be expected: Freddie tended to offer a great deal of unwanted advice to Brian about what to wear on stage and what songs they should include in their set lists. 

The eyes of his dentist were dark brown above the mask he was wearing. Roger’s pretty blue eyes would be much nicer to look at, although Tim still couldn’t imagine Roger doing this for a living. Roger was meant for a life of luxury, Tim thought. Roger should have a life where he was cared for. He should not be caring for other people’s teeth.

Since the trip to Bolton Brian had started wearing his clogs almost all the time, Tim had noticed. Freddie had also noticed and had started an unsubtle and sustained campaign to encourage Brian to choose alternative footwear. 

Roger had told Tim how Brian had ruined his boots to clear up his bewilderment when Freddie had asked Brian pointedly if he intended to replace ‘the boots that went up in smoke, darling.’ This had earned Freddie a curt ‘no’ and Tim had overheard Roger quietly telling Freddie to drop the subject. 

Tim thought that if Roger had burnt his boot he would have broadcast the news to everyone, exaggerating the story for comic effect. Everyone would have been consulted during Roger’s search for the perfect replacement boots. Tim suspected that Brian, in contrast, had thought he might die of embarrassment. Tim loved Roger’s exuberance and Brian’s quiet introspection. 

The dentist invited him to rinse his mouth out. Tim imagined those words said by Roger’s voice. Roger was altogether too sexy to be a dentist.

Sometimes Tim longed to wreck Brian: to pound him into the mattress and make him forget his own name. He wanted to erase all Brian’s worries for him, even if it was just for a moment.

He wanted all of Roger’s energy and joy focussed on him, wanted to see Roger naked, to be allowed to touch him, to hear the pretty noises he would make as he came. He thought of Roger’s manual dexterity as he twirled his drumsticks and longed to find out what else Roger could do with his hands.

And therein lay the problem. As much as Tim adored Roger and Brian he knew that eventually his fantasies about them would wreck the band. He was going to have to leave. A friend had told him about another band looking for a bassist and his decision was made.

Tim politely said goodbye to the dental receptionist and left with a sad smile.


End file.
